space, hemmed in by the dark wall of the forest, arose a
rock, bearing some rude, natural resemblance either to
an alter or a pulpit, and surrounded by four blazing
pines, their tops aflame, their stems untouched, like
candles at an evening meeting. The mass of foliage that
had overgrown the summit of the rock was all on fire,
blazing high into the night and fitfully illuminating the
whole field. Each pendent twig and leafy festoon was in
a blaze. As the red light arose and fell, a numerous
congregation alternately shone forth, then disappeared
in shadow, and again grew, as it were, out of the
darkness, peopling the heart of the solitary woods at
once.
"A grave and dark-clad company," quoth Goodman
Brown.
In truth they were such. Among them, quivering to and
fro between gloom and splendor, appeared faces that
would be seen next day at the council board of the
province, and others which, Sabbath after Sabbath,
looked devoutly heavenward, and benignantly over the
crowded pews, from the holiest pulpits in the land.
Some affirm that the lady of the governor was there. At
least there were high dames well known to her, and
wives of honored husbands, and widows, a great
multitude, and ancient maidens, all of excellent repute,
and fair young girls, who trembled lest their mothers
should espy them. Either the sudden gleams of light
flashing over the obscure field bedazzled Goodman
Brown, or he recognized a score of the church
members of Salem village famous for their especial
sanctity. Good old Deacon Gookin had arrived, and
waited at the skirts of that venerable saint, his revered
pastor. But, irreverently consorting with these grave,
reputable, and pious people, these elders of the church,
these chaste dames and dewy virgins, there were men of
dissolute lives and women of spotted fame, wretches
given over to all mean and filthy vice, and suspected
even of horrid crimes. It was strange to see that the
good shrank not from the wicked, nor were the sinners
abashed by the saints. Scattered also among their pale-
faced enemies were the Indian priests, or powwows,
who had often scared their native forest with more
hideous incantations than any known to English
witchcraft."But where is Faith?" thought Goodman Brown; and, as
hope came into his heart, he trembled.Another verse of the hymn arose, a slow and mournful
strain, such as the pious love, but joined to words
which expressed all that our nature can conceive of sin,
and darkly hinted at far more. Unfathomable to mere
mortals is the lore of fiends. Verse after verse was sung;
and still the chorus of the desert swelled between like
the deepest tone of a mighty organ; and with the final
peal of that dreadful anthem there came a sound, as if
the roaring wind, the rushing streams, the howling
beasts, and every other voice of the unconcerted
wilderness were mingling and according with the voice
of guilty man in homage to the prince of all. The four